


Who are you?

by finstocksimaginaryfriend



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Essays, Fiction, Future, Gen, How Do I Tag, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, POV First Person, Therapy, a little bit?, maybe? - Freeform, part of story, personal account of character, the summary is pretext to fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:21:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finstocksimaginaryfriend/pseuds/finstocksimaginaryfriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who are you? Who are you. <i>Who are you?</i> <b>Who are you?</b><br/><i><b><span class="u">Who are you?</span></b></i><br/>The title just lies there, mocking him. She had told him to write an essay for her. Who are you? She said it would be therapeutic. Who are you? And, well, she would know. She <i>is</i> his therapist.<br/>The title lies empty for almost a year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who are you?

 

** Who are you? **

The doctor once said that there was a darkness around my heart. He never said anything about how it would fester and grow.

I am broken and dark and twisted. I am something that has been patched up - by myself, by others, by medication - again and again; over and over; this way and that. The fix is always too fragile. I have broken, shattered, exploded and imploded alike. Caused destruction as much as I have been destroyed and I have not been whole since I don't know when.

I do not have darkness around my heart anymore - I have it in every pore. In every artery. Every blood cell. Molecule of oxygen. In ever word. I do not have darkness, darkness has me.

I am someone who has seen horrors and nightmares and hallucinations and I have seen them walking in the daylight. I have run with them. I have fought them. Faced them. Stood at their sides and howled with them. I have been injected with terror so thoroughly that it will continue to run its course long after I'm buried beneath the earth.

Friends have fallen before me. To their knees, their backs, their graves. At the hands of enemies and allies and themselves. I have watched the life seep slowly from a mans eyes as he dies. As he lives. As she finds another body at the foot of her bed.

There's a knife in my bag. That's not a snake but a gun in my boot. I am impervious to three different kinds of poison, two kinds of venom and five sorts of paralysis. I have stared death in the face and begged it to take me not the friend at my side and I have been rejected.

I am all sharp angles. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Literal and metaphorical I am made of spikes. My fingernails may not be claws but they are tipped in blood nonetheless. My teeth may be blunt but they are cast in iron. My eyes may be gold but they have stolen the light from red.

I have been bowed to, trodden on, kidnapped, beaten, prayed to, thanked, idealised. I have cried myself to sleep every night since my mother died. Fear following sadness and now it's a habit I can't shake because it makes me feel alive.

Every free, alone moment I fill with another panic attack.

They make me feel human.

You're a therapist, you don't care about this. You care about your next pay check. You care about the change that occurred and how. Trust me when I say that you don't want to know. You don't want to know. You don't want to know and I don't want to tell you in any case. You want to know about my childhood.

Let me tell you not about this broken thing I have become but of who I once was.

Of the boy who loved leaves in autumn. Who learnt to bake from his mother but only ever mastered the art of cookies because all his cakes tasted of egg. Who broke his first bike by riding it through a junkyard and tearing every possible part to pieces. Of the boy who used to break things and was not broken by them instead.

I once broke my wrist when I tried to prove that I could break dance to my best friend. I could not break dance. The coffee table also suffered. To make sure I felt embarrassed my parents made me get a pink cast. Said that way even if I wasn't blushing all they had to do was lift my arm and the colour would be reflected back. When someone who begrudgingly would become an ally in the future (after, of course, being a formidable foe) made fun of the cast I broke his G.I Joe by bringing my armoured arm crashing down onto it. He didn't say anything else, but I did hurt myself even more (I always I hurt myself more and more and more) and have my television rights revoked for three days.

My dad taught me how to play chess in that time of no T.V.

I play to this day.

Let me tell you about the little boy that loved to learn. Who was diagnosed with ADHD and finally provided with a reason as to why he struggled so much when he desired knowledge to such an extent. Of the seven year old boy that learnt to power through a maths puzzle even as his mind flew off onto a thousand different things. Do you want to see the notebooks I filled with passing thoughts? I wrote novels worth. Pages after pages of scripture that I rolled out at every second. Notebooks that go from age six to age sixteen and then the ones that follow made up of only screams and scribbles as I try to destroy the thoughts and images that plague me.

I want to rename the Black Plague because it was nothing so black as what plagues me.

Faces stopped appearing in the darkness and, instead, darkness appeared in the faces around me; in the face in the mirror and in my fathers eyes.

But let me tell you about the child that didn't know they were innocent, but oh how innocent they were.

My favourite animal used to be a shark but after my mother died it became a hummingbird: she always used to say how much I reminded her of one. Now it's a fox because I am so much more cunning than a wolf.

Oh yes, don't you want to hear about how my mother died and how I changed as a person following it?

Thirteen and with a single parent that was drinking himself into an early grave. God they were the good old days. Now it's me dragging him down to his death, myself along side, as I chase down a path that's already ruined so much. Thirteen and angry and lonely and resentful. I went four months without talking to my best friend because while he may have lost his dad, they'd never gotten along and it wasn't fair that he got to keep his mum while mine was rotting in a casket. Hated how happy they were without his dad around while without my mum our world was crumbling.

Just three years later and we were finally moving past the constant agony just for another wave of shit to hit the fan.

Murders sprung like dandelions with wolves for the rabbits that devour them.

'I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night'

Let me tell you that love has nothing to do with fear. Think of a brick. Now think of the French language. Love and fear are as separate as any two things can be with only the occasional overlap wherein they do not meet but cross paths. There is a French word for brick but nonetheless they are separate entities. Love is the reason I follow to what I fear but it does not take from the terror.

I have loved wolves too fondly to leave them be.

Drop a glass of milk. Press blow on the vacuum cleaner and disperse the mess. Do you see my face in the patterns across the floor? Try squinting. Try standing over here. Try surviving the bloodbaths, wipe the death from your eyes and look again. A constellation of moles, a net of scars, everything that was once held together an array across the carpet.

There's no use crying over spilt milk because it can't be returned to how it once was. But this is just a metaphor: I am not really milk. I have made myself a patchwork armour of skin and bones over and over. I have made a cast of paper-mâché around the segments of my heart a thousand times. Duct-tape, cello-tape, superglue, PVA; a needle and thread. I have brought myself together just to be pulled back apart. I have used all manner of materials and methods and sooner or later the elastic will hold out against the strain.

Who am I? I am a hummingbird and I am broken but that does not mean that I am a lost cause.

**Author's Note:**

> i have never written anything like this and i do not know if i like it. i was trying to write an essay and procrastinated by writing this essay-by-stiles thing of a fic. it also has a varying tempo at which i read it so i should probably make a podcast but i do not have a nice voice. oh well.  
> you can find me [here](http://finstocksimaginaryfriend.tumblr.com/)


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